


Adrift

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Somnophilia, Sticky Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Drift/Wing thing. Set mid Crystal City. Allegedly based on a kinkmeme prompt but I am not sure it succeeds.  I will give myself a Rodimus Star for YOU TRIED?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift

“You have got to be kidding me.”  Deadlock knew Wing wasn’t. The jet had a weird sense of humor, but this was beyond even that. 

“I realize it’s, well, a little awkward.” Wing gave a sheepish grin, holding the manacles in his hands.  “But the only other option is locking you in a secure cell for the duration.”

Yeah, that option was possibly even worse. It was bad enough to be stuck in this stupid city, always having to be in sight of Wing, but locked in a cell?  “Hfn. At least you’re getting rid of the whole fraggin’ pretense that this is anything but me being a prisoner.” 

“Drift.”  Wing did that…thing with his face, a kind of pout that was really uncomfortable to look at. “Please, it’s not like that. Plus, I mean, don’t you want to go outside? I figured you’d want the variety, seeing things, looking around.” 

Right, looking around. Seeing things. Like a tourist. But.  But. If he played along, he thought, they might give him a chance to escape.  They’d get lazy. Or dumb.  “Yeah, okay. Sure.”  Deadlock thrust his wrist forward. He could find a way out of this. If he could outsmart Turmoil’s entire crew, a few soft pacifist knights on a camping trip would be no problem.

***

Correction. It would be no problem if the fraggin’ mechs weren’t so oppressively cheerful. All the time.  Like it was their job or something.  Seriously, it was like some sort of horrible punishment Deadlock figured even Turmoil would enjoy, handcuffing Deadlock to a bunch of chirpy knights, as they walked over the sandy terrain, playing some sort of stupid word game.  

Deadlock was tuning them out, as best he could, optics scanning the landscape, trying to map routes through the featureless sand and rock, trying to spot concealment places, anything that looked like habitation. He tried--in vain--to spot the base he'd seen when he'd arrived.  Maybe this time, without a dogooding jet trying to ‘help’ him--

"What about you, Drift?" One of Wing's companions, his bland brown robes bulky with an equipment pack underneath.  They’d made some big deal about it, about having to go unrecognized as Cybertronians, and he’d remembered Wing when he’d met him, shrouded in the same weird garments. It was stupid. They were Cybertronians, and tey didn’t need to hide from anyone.  Besides, the trousers chafed.  

"What about me what."  

"It's your turn in the game--if you want it."

"What game." He would care less, except that would require effort.  

"It's simple," Wing said, tweaking the wrist that was attached to his. "You try to figure out what you figure nobody but you has done.  And if you're right, you win, and if you aren't right, it's someone else's turn."  

"What's the fraggin' point of that?" 

The other knights laughed. "Normally it's a drinking game, and everyone who hasn't done what you list has to take a drink, or pay a decashanix."  

Gambling. Among the pure and pretty knights. Who'd have thought?  

"We settle payments when we get back," said another. "Since, obviously, we can't do the repairs drinking. Well, not well!"  Another group laugh. Really, Deadlock could use a drink just to cope with their relentless cheerfulness. He wanted to tell them to stuff it all in their afterburners, but it hit him that playing like he was going to go back with them, all nice and obedient...couldn't hurt. 

He grunted, thinking for a long moment.  

Another of the knights interrupted. "Just don't cheat like Wing and say 'flying'."  

Wing grinned, optics twinkling even in the desert daylight. "It's not cheating. It's strategy." 

Sure, why not. Not cheating just like holding someone against their will permanently wasn't keeping a prisoner.  Sure had some slippery language in Crystal City.  

"I got one," Deadlock said. "Bet none of you's ever been handcuffed to a jet."  Sure it was obvious, and maybe cheating, but they shouldn't expect more from a Decepticon. 

A beat of silence, and then a roar of laughter through the small group of mechs. "Good one!" one said, while another added, plaintively, "...but I wouldn't mind."  

Yeah? Get chained to another jet, Deadlock thought sourly. This one's taken.  

"Looks like you won, Drift," Wing said, with a friendly elbow to his chassis. "Feels good, doesn't it?" 

Deadlock scowled under his cowl, but he couldn't refute it. 

***

“I’m sorry it’s warm. We’re cooling the rations for tonight.”  Wing knelt in front of him, holding out a ration pouch.  It was a break from the view, at least, Deadlock thought, the endless expanse of a blue sky washed out by double suns, the tawny sand shimmering with heat, blurring the line between land and air. 

At least he could get a response out of Wing. 

Deadlock snatched at it with his free hand. “Had worse than warm rations in my fraggin’ life.” Like none at all, or diluted to the point of being worthless. Soft mechs, here, where warm rations on a hot day were something that needed to be apologized for.  

Wing gave a gentle smile. “I love the perspective you bring to everything.” 

Deadlock frowned, forgetting for a klik that the jet couldn’t see his face, under his hood and cowl. He pushed it aside.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Simply that. Not everything is a conspiracy against you, Drift.” 

“Believe that when I see it,” Deadlock muttered, twisting his body to bring his hands together to open his ration pouch. If he was going to escape, he’d be stupid not to top off his fuel.  They’d chained him to a pole while they worked, one of the structures on the edge of the station. Like a pet or something, after patting him and telling him to enjoy the view.  “The frag even is this?” 

“One of our power collecting stations. Solar, wind, geothermal.  It’s hard to find a site that offers all three. And the solar cells aren’t producing power, so we’re here to find out why. And hopefully fix it.” 

“So what are you, the bodyguard or something?” Because Deadlock was pretty sure they could have found someone else for that job, left him and the jet back.  

A trill of laughter. “Oh, no. I was one of the designers here, back when we first built it. You don’t think all we do is spar, do you?” 

He had.  Because that was all he was good for--fighting.  How could you be good at more than one thing?  He subsided,, taking a drink of his ration to cover his bruised ego. 

The jet seemed to notice anyway--damn him--and dropped one gloved hand to rest on Deadlock’s knee.  “At least you have a nice view up here?”

***

Deadlock sighed, restless, staring up at the night sky.  The crew had had a conversation--way too polite and mannered to be an argument--about whether or not they should continue after dark, but had decided that lights might draw attention.  

The whole thing was fraggin’ stupid.  They were Cybertronians. All of them (except Deadlock and he resented that with every cable of his being) were armed. Were they really afraid someone would come and, what? Beat them up?  

Ridiculous. 

So they’d shared out the cooled energon, which he’d never admit had been kind of wonderful racing through his sun-heated lines, and after some more of their burbly, happy conversation, each had settled around the proximity-bubble, which would warn them if someone came too close, and fell asleep, each of them in to the heavy recharge of mechs who had worked hard all day. 

Deadlock hadn’t worked hard: he’d been chained to a post, so he’d dozed and stared at the landscape, hoping some path would suddenly pop out to him, some way to escape, some place else to go.  

So they were heavy asleep, and he was here, wrist linked with Wing’s, staring at the strange stars. Clouds, thin like tissue, frothed over parts of the sky, while in others, the stars glittered in an indigo expanse.  

He’d never really had a chance to look at the sky, before.  In Rodion’s gutters, in the Dead End, the sky had been so far above them, mechanometers of steel and concrete and Security mechs keeping you in your place.  And the war? He’d seen the sky, but it was always half-washed out from fires, from the blast of artillery. He’d never seen a sky like this, big and still and dark. 

He felt small, meaningless, not like a part in some great endeavor, like Megatron’s speeches made him feel. He felt...insignificant, and he didn’t like it one bit. 

Deadlock turned, taking his gaze off the vault of the sky, shifting onto his side, his body almost curling up into a ball like it used to in Rodion, where your chance of survival often meant you had to be small target.  But a small target was still, at least, a target. Someone wanted to do something with you, to you. The sky above was...indifferent. It didn’t care either way if he lived or not.  

And there was no point getting angry about it, and that was the worst of all, leaving him feeling naked, disarmed. 

He watched the jet’s chassis rise and fall under the fabric of his cloak for a long moment, before turning his back on the jet, staring off into the indigo night, as the craggy dunes melded into blue and violet shadows. 

His movement shifted his arm, tugging at Wing’s, enough to make it flop off the jet’s chassis. He froze, still before another reminder he wasn’t free, he didn’t matter, he had no control, he was useless and unwanted. 

A chuff of air, disconsolate, from his vents, as he squeezed his optics shut, trying to will sleep to come to him, shifting his weight, feeling his hip dig into the soft sand. Sleep taunted him, throwing only a thin veil over his mind, dulling his thoughts, making time seem to stretch. And stretch. And stretch.  

A movement beside him, and a soft rustle of fabric. Wing, shifting position, flopped out on the sand sleeping the sleep of a mech with a conscience as clear as crystal.  Deadlock has never slept like that in his life--always had to be on guard, on watch, against some threat.  He almost envied--no, he did envy the jet. As much as he disdained Wing’s innocence, there was a part of him that ached for never having felt that at all, the feeling that he’d missed out on some wonderful, beautiful, special thing, if only for a short time. 

Another sound from behind him, a wistful sort of sigh, and the rustle of fabric, and then Deadlock could feel a presence against his side, that awareness honed by years in the gutters, of someone nearby, someone within range. 

Deadlock stiffened, fighting thousands of years of instinct that someone near, someone touching, meant harm and danger. 

He’d never admit it. Decepticons didn’t feel fear.  At least that’s what he told himself.  He forced a vent. This was Wing. Recharging. Mechs moved around when they recharged all the time.  It wasn’t an attack, Deadlock. Calm down. 

He felt his joints ease, tension draining. It was just Wing. If Wing wanted to hurt him, he had plenty of opportunities in the sparring circle. 

It was just Wing. 

He shuttered his optics, willing them to close, trying to feel the sand underneath his frame, the little window of cool air on his face.  Not Rodion, not Turmoil’s ship.  You should be thinking of escaping. Right. Escaping.  He could strike off in some direction (which?) if he could get free of Wing (how?).  

A frustrated sigh, his chassis falling sharply.  

Wing noticed, or sensed, or...somethinged...the movement, shifting again, pressing his cowled face against Deadlock’s shoulder, hand shifting off his own body, onto Deadlock’s hip, as though to comfort him. 

Yeah, it...wasn’t having that effect.  Deadlock could swear he could feel the contours of the jet’s fingers, even through the gloves, even through the fabric of his stupid clothes, a warmth and pressure that was different and seemed to tingle through him.  He lay still, feeling his own EM field prickle with sudden arousal, thickening with charge, even as he tried to will himself, well, normal. Calm.  

Not working.  And working even less well when the hand moved, and he felt the drag of fabric, another level of sensation, over his armor, as it skimmed inward, fingers curling loosely around his pelvic span. The jet gave a sigh--not frustrated and hot like Deadlock’s, but soothed, contented, as though he found something wonderful in the touch.  

All Deadlock was finding was frustration and confusion, his body almost craving the touch, while the rest of him was...unsettled. Wing didn’t--Wing couldn’t...could he? 

No. He couldn’t. Which meant this was just, you know, an accident, some kind of coincidence, that his hand was  there , and his thigh was sliding over Deadlock’s hip like  that . Coincidence...right? 

Wing gave a soft chirr, pressing closer, murmuring an indistinct word, but Deadlock could feel heat against his hip, the hard press of Wing’s pelvic armor against him, and the fuzzing pressure of an EM field, tingling through the fabric, vibrating lightly through his systems. 

Wing shifted against him, restless, hips grinding over Deadlock’s hip, and Deadlock could feel to sudden wet warmth, could smell the tang of lubricant.   

Wing murmured again, hand wandering over Deadlock’s clothes, seeking something, finding it under the tunic, in the gap between that and the trousers, the fabric of the glove like velvet on Deadlock’s bare belly. He sucked in a sharp vent of air at the light touch, stifling it sharply, optics darting from side to side.  

All Deadlock could think was that the others could wake up.  They could see them, like this, the jet rocking his hips slowly, sleepily, against him, a wet stain on both their clothes giving them away.  Deadlock couldn’t tell if he’d find that mortifying, or if he’d be upset because it would mean this would stop. 

Because more and more of him wanted this, puzzled but yearning for the gentle sweep of Wing’s hand over his interface hatch, the sign of someone--anyone--wanting to touch him this way.  It was new, and he wasn’t really sure where it would go. But he wanted to find out.  

He moved his own chained hand, almost gingerly, waiting for the telltale tug of the chain, but trying to spider his hand over to that slow, longing thrusting against him, the tingling dampness on his side, the feel of the taut thighs squeezing against him, a slow, gentle rhythm entirely unlike anything Deadlock knew. In his world, interfacing was fast, perfunctory at best, brutal displays of power at worst. Nothing gentle, nothing slow. 

He could reach it, just barely, just enough to awkwardly curve his palm around what was a spike, Wing’s spike, hard and nearly vibrating with want under the fabric.  

A louder sound, like a whimper, from the jet, and a sharper push of the spike against Deadlock’s hand. Deadlock squeezed, sharply, a reflex reaction, because the desert night sky was like a bowl that seemed to catch every sound, ricocheting it around, and the faint hum of the proximity dome’s generator did nothing to dampen it.  

Wing’s hand raked down Deadlock’s chassis, the trousers’ drawstring yielding at his insistent push, the gloved fingers sliding between the top of the trousers and Deadlock’s frame, rubbing against his interface hatch. Deadlock felt his own systems tingle online: his spike surging behind its cover, his valve’s calipers running a cycling check.  He shouldn’t be having this response, he shouldn’t be thinking this at all: Wing was his jailer; Wing was the one who bested him, effortlessly, day after day, in the sparring circle, dangling his freedom like a prize forever just out of reach.  

Wing was polite to him, but Wing was that way with everyone: Deadlock was pretty sure Wing had never raised his voice at anyone.  It wasn’t him; he wasn’t special.  

This wasn’t about him. He couldn’t even imagine WIng wanting him...this way. It was probably Axe, with his big, booming laugh and easy smile, or Dai Atlas--mechs liked power, right?  Or...or… 

It struck him, suddenly, how little he actually knew about Wing, who his friends were, who he cared about.  That Wing had lovers, he knew had to be true: Wing was too attractive not to.  But Deadlock hadn’t heard a word about him, this mystery lover of Wing’s, even as he’d lived in Wing’s quarters, making sure by his awkward, scowling presence, that he was a wedge driven between them.  

This was about someone else, not him.  It couldn’t be him.  

And it burned, that knowledge, like propane poured over his armor.  He writhed under the realization, hand coving to Wing’s on his groin, pulling it off, trying to turn away, curl into a little ball around some unknown ache.  

A wistful sound, and then that thicker plushness Deadlock had been dreading: Wing onlining out of recharge, systems booting up.  He could feel his hand, still faintly sticky from the spike's lubricant, and his own interface equipment throbbing with an unreasonable want, now seeming almost to burn under the fact that Wing was going to piece it together.  

“Drift?” 

Deadlock almost winced, even though Wing’s voice was a whisper, scarcely louder than the listless breeze that stirred the desert air. 

“What.” His own voice was louder, the guttural, rough timbre of someone used to yelling over artillery fire.  

“I...should I apologize?” 

Deadlock squeezed his optics shut. “For what?”  He knew for what.  Wing knew for what. This was just making it more embarrassing for everyone. 

A shiver of air behind him, a nervous sort of ex-vent. Was Wing...nervous?  He turned his head over his shoulder.  

“I touched you. Without consent.” The gold optics stared at Deadlock’s clothed shoulder, as though afraid to meet his gaze. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”  Harsh truth.  

“But I...I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“It?” That word--so small, one tiny syllable--seemed to explode in Deadlock’s mind. It couldn’t mean….

“I mean.” Wing blinked, slowly, mouth twitching as he tried to find just the right words. “I don’t want to force myself on you.”

“Force yourself.” This was starting to feel like an echo chamber, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel he was still trying to get traction here. “On me.” 

“It’s just so awkward,” Wing said.  “I mean, I wanted to approach you, but I didn’t know how. And...now this.” The optics dropped again.  

“You.” Wait. This couldn’t be right.  “You wanted to…,” he gave a vague gesture down their bodies with his free hand. “With me.” 

Wing nodded, looking on the verge of tears. “And now I’ve done this and….” 

Deadlock could feel the jet’s EM field, disturbed, upset. He really thought he’d offended Deadlock.  It was a novel experience, and the look on Wing’s face seemed to stab straight into his spark echoing down his belly to his interface equipment, a sweet, longing pain that was entirely unfamiliar.  “And nothing,” he said. Which weren’t the right words, weren’t even close. He was no good at this stuff.  He turned, rolling onto his other shoulder, facing the jet, their linked hands awkward between them.  He struggled to find better words, failed, and then reached up with his free hand, pulling the jet’s chin up, the gold optics opening wide, brighter and warmer than the planet’s dual suns. He hesitated, just for a klik, dazzled by those optics, before pulling closer, covering Wing’s mouth with his own. 

It felt tectonic, as though the whole ground heaved beneath him, as though something inside him shifted around. Wing’s mouth was warm and satiny, against his, and the sudden pulse of the EM field against his was like everything he’d always wanted and never had in the gutters of Rodion being poured over him at once, so much all at once that it felt, just for a moment, like drowning.

He wanted to drown, he decided, wanted to let go of all he was and had been, and let himself float, adrift, in all this plenty and wonder and emotions he didn’t even know how to name.  

The chain between them clinked, softly, as he pulled away, mouth still parted, longing.  

"Not here," Wing said, breathless, moving his hand to twine in Deadlock's.  "Our first time. I want it to be right. Back in Crystal City."

Deadlock nodded, still dazzled, and he knew his plans to leave, to escape, to break free from this place...had evaporated like morning fog, and for the first time, he cared about something more than the war.


End file.
